


The Fault is Not in Our Stars

by Leavingslowly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7682185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leavingslowly/pseuds/Leavingslowly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to episode 3x08 (Prisoner of War). Aramis isn't as unscathed from his ordeal with Grimaud as he appeared to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aramis

**Author's Note:**

> Aramis recovered way too fast from his capture and subsequent treatment for my tastes. In the scene where they return to the garrison he was shown in the background struggling to get off his horse. Then he goes running around the city, then argues with Treville . . . he should've been way more whumped!

It was adrenaline and anger that had kept him going for so long.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, Aramis realized how truly awful he felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, and sleep seemed like a long forgotten comfort, not to mention the various aches and pains inflicted by Grimaud. He’d long since adapted to the soreness across his ribs and the ringing in his right ear from Grimoud’s pistol firing so close to his face, but he couldn’t ignore the rest of his body any longer.

He tried rolling his neck back to ease the stiffness in his shoulders, but it only served to intensify the pain of strained muscles and the pounding in his head that was slowly fueling a growing sense of sickness in the pit of his belly. He swallowed hard against the nausea and discomfort, and vowed not to vomit on himself or his horse. That would be undignified, and he’d suffered enough indignities in the past few days.

He had been knocked out, trussed up like a turkey, beaten and dragged around, and it was all for nothing. They were no closer to peace than when he had undertaken the Queen’s mission. Never had he been so angry, or felt so alone.   
  
He thought the sense of loneliness was difficult during his time at Douai, but he had been wrong. While there he at least memories of better times and his friendship with his comrades to sustain him. Now the world was crumbling around him, broken apart by war, and it felt like he was leading a solitary existence in the midst of all the horrors. He had just wanted it to be over. He was tired of the death and destruction, of seeing innocent lives destroyed and being able to do nothing to stop it.

Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan had come save him – they would never abandon him – but they no longer understood one another. They’d fought together for four years without him, and now they were strangers to one another. His only ally, the only person who understood what he was trying to accomplish, was Anne, and seeking the Queen’s comfort was forbidden, now and forever.

It was a sad truth that he was fairly certain he would never find peace in this life. Perhaps none of them would.

“Sir?” a voice asked from below.   
  
Aramis startled from his thoughts and looked down to see one of the stable boys staring expectantly at him. It was late, the sun almost below the horizon, and the courtyard was relatively empty. He knew he should get down; if he waited any longer people might start getting suspicious, or worse he might not be able to move at all. He sighed, and forced himself to pull his feet out of the stirrups, ignoring the flare of pain the motion ignited along his sides, back and up his neck and shoulders.   
  
He clenched his teeth against the stabbing ache in his ribs as he bent forward to swing his other leg over the horse. He expected the dismount was going to hurt. What he didn’t expect was for the courtyard and everything in it to begin wavering with dizzying effect.  
  
For a few long, nauseating seconds the garrison shimmered around him like a mirage. He managed to get halfway off the horse, with one leg on the ground and one leg up with his foot in the stirrup, when his vision started to grey out at the edges. He was forced to clutch the saddle, pulling the horse sideways. The startled animal’s head went up and it shied away, effectively releasing him.  
  
He stumbled back into the stable boy, who promptly grabbed on to him with a gasp.  
  
“Sir, sir?!” he shrieked.   
  
Aramis wanted to turn around and tell him to be quiet, but he’d seemingly lost his capacity to move, let alone speak. He heard a familiar voice shout his name, and felt hands grabbing onto his shoulders. For a few endless moments it felt like he was on a ship, the ground beneath him rolling like a wave, and he reached out a flailing hand to try to catch himself, his fingers connecting with leather and metal studs.  
  
“What the bloody . . . Aramis!”  
  
He opened his eyes and saw the blurry image of Porthos standing in front of him. Trying to find his balance was a fruitless endeavor and he was so damn tired and sore. Sagging against his friend felt like relief, and he embraced it. He didn’t even want to try to stay upright anymore.   
  
“Aw hell.” Porthos muttered, easing him down to his knees as the world started to go dark. He felt a hand on his cheek, and the last thing he heard was someone calling for help.


	2. Athos

Athos heard the shouting start outside shortly after Sylvie drifted off into a fitful sleep. He wanted more than anything to ignore it, but as Captain his duty demanded he get up and address whatever was happening. Cursing under his breath, he rose to open the door and nearly got hit in the face with it as D’Artagnan burst into the room.

“What the hell is going on?” Athos hissed, glancing behind him to ensure Sylvie hadn’t woken at the commotion. Thankfully, her eyes will still closed and her breathing even, seemingly unaware of the commotion.

“It’s Aramis - he passed out in the courtyard and we can’t wake him.”  
  
Athos raised his eyebrows in surprise. Of all the things D’Artagnan could have said to him that was certainly not what he expected.

“I know, I know – he seemed fine earlier.” D’Artagnan said, echoing Athos’s thoughts.

“When did this happen?” he asked, following the younger man quickly out the door. The last time he had seen Aramis, the man had seemed tired and perhaps sore from his ordeal, but otherwise fine as he rode off to the palace to speak with Treville. It had been nearly a day since they had rescued him and aside from Aramis’ still-simmering rage, Athos hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

“Just now.” D’Artagnan replied. “The stable boy said he collapsed after getting off his horse.”

Athos walked to the edge of the patio and looked down over the railing to see a small crowd of people gathered around Porthos and Constance, who were kneeling on the ground over what had to be Aramis. He couldn’t see anything of the man from this angle, however, other than his legs.

Biting back a curse, he swiftly turned and headed for the stairs, D’Artagnan on his heels. A small group of cadets were gathered around the scene, whispering and staring in wide-eyed shock at each other and the unconscious musketeer, and he had to push several of them away to get through. As he cut a path, he barked out a curt order for everyone to resume duties at once, as he was certain Aramis wouldn't appreciate an audience.

Athos wasn’t sure what he expected to see as the cadets started to dissipate; at the very least, Aramis starting to fidget, or perhaps complaining. Instead, he was lying motionless on his back on the ground, one arm held captive by Constance’s hands and the other flung out to the side, as Porthos carefully examined his head.

“What happened?” Athos asked, approaching and kneeling next to Constance. Aramis’ face was turned towards him and so pale that for a moment Athos had to remind himself that he wasn’t dead, only unconscious.

“No idea.” Porthos replied, pausing in his ministrations to glance briefly up at Athos and D'Artagnan. “Came into the courtyard and he was fallin’ off his horse, so I grabbed him and then he went down. He’s got a lump an’ some blood on the side of his head. Got him to wake up for a minute, but he was out of it.”

Constance looked up with worried eyes. “Should we call a physician?”

Athos ignored the question for a moment and reached out a hand to lay against Aramis’ cheek. His skin felt cool and clammy beneath his palm, perhaps from the chill in the air, or perhaps from shock. He carefully carded through tangled dark curls to examine the side of Aramis’ head that Porthos had been looking at, and easily found the aforementioned lump, as well as a shallow scrape above his right ear that was already crusted over with dried blood.

“He is most likely concussed. Did you note any other injuries?” Athos asked. When Porthos and D’Artagnan shook their heads, he reached out and tapped Aramis gently on the cheek. His lashes fluttered, eyes opening slightly at the prodding, but his gaze was blank and he remained otherwise unresponsive.

Athos sighed and leaned back on his heels. “Let’s move him to his room. There isn’t anything a physician can do for such a wound.” He turned towards the woman hovering at his side. “Constance, can you stay with Sylvie until I return?

Together Porthos and D’Argantan divested Aramis of his weapons, and Porthos hoisted the smaller man up and over his shoulder. Constance and D’Artagnan turned towards the stairs together, while Athos picked up the weapons and trailed behind Porthos through the barracks. He couldn’t help but wince as Aramis hung in the larger man’s grasp like a sack of grain, his head bouncing lightly against Porthos’ back with each stride.

Athos could see the tension in Porthos’ gait, and knew the other man was both worried and angry. Worried that their friend had been injured and they hadn’t noticed, and angry because he’d kept secrets from them once again – and for the Queen, no less.

Perhaps Athos should’ve been angry as well, but he understood Aramis’ love for a woman he couldn’t have, as well as the lack of self-preservation where she was concerned. He also understood his friend’s desire to end the war, for he was tired of it as well. Aramis’s enraged words in the woods still echoed in his head. “I wanted peace! We’ve all seen what war does to the world!”

Of all of them, Aramis was the least likely lose his temper so completely. Four years and war had not only torn their country apart, it also made them strangers to one another, Athos realized. The losses and disappointments over the years had worn them all down.

The fact that he wanted his brothers to shoot him to kill Grimoud was extreme, even for Aramis, who had a fairly reliable reckless streak. Athos remembered a time that seemed not so long ago when Aramis had been happy and carefree and didn’t have such an affinity for death, or carry anger and guilt around him like a dark, heavy cloak. How long had it been since any of them had smiled or laughed together?

“A little help here?” Porthos begged, knocking Athos out of his own mind. Porthos jostled Aramis hard in an effort to hold on to him and open the door to his room at the same time, and the unconscious man groaned in response.

Athos rolled his eyes. “Careful, Porthos, we don’t want to give him another concussion.” He stepped forward and opened the door, following Porthos inside and shutting it behind them.

As Porthos deposited Aramis on his bed, Athos looked around. The room was cold and surprisingly empty, devoid of any sense of Aramis. The bed was unmade, suggesting his friend at least slept in it, but there wasn’t any other indication that the man lived there aside from a large trunk sitting in the corner and a hearth with a lone log sitting atop a small pile of ashes. Looking at the scene, it felt as if the marksman hadn’t really ever returned to them.

Porthos seemed to read his thoughts and turned around, hands on his hips. “I guess he’s still livin’ like a monk, eh?”

“It would seem so.” Athos replied. “That is our Aramis, ever devoted to God, and apparently freezing to death as well.”

He leaned over and placed his hand on Aramis’s forehead. His skin was still cold, and he’d begun to shiver slightly. “He’s as chilled as this room.”

Porthos sighed and turned towards the closed door. “I’ll get ‘im more blankets and wood. Bloody idiot.”

Athos waited until Porthos left to begin divesting Aramis of his pauldron and leathers. As he shifted him onto his side to unbuckle and slide his pauldron off, Aramis groaned again. Careful not to jostle his head too much, Athos rolled him onto his back and gave a light tap on his cheek.

“Aramis, can you hear me?” He let his hand rest against the side of Aramis’ face. “Aramis, wake up.”

Although it took longer than he would’ve liked, Aramis’ eyes slowly opened to stare blearily up at him, a look of pained confusion on his face. For a long moment he didn’t move or say anything, until finally he blinked and seemed to realized Athos was standing over him.

“Athos?” he asked, sounding half-drunk. “What happ’nd?”

“You passed out.” Athos replied, sighing when Aramis continued to stare at him blankly. “You’re in your room.” Aramis blinked again and tried to nod his head, only to wince and squeeze his eyes shut.

Athos grabbed the other man’s hand as he raised it to touch his head. “You’ve been hit in the head at least once, my friend. Try not to move.”

He quickly began undoing the hooks of Aramis’s leather outer layers, hoping his newly acquired consciousness would allow the task to be a little easier. However, Aramis seemed to take his order to not move very seriously, and remained barely aware and unhelpfully limp as Athos maneuvered him out of his doublet, motionless except for his shivering.

After some wrangling, Athos was able to get the other man down to his underclothes, but the feeling of relief was short-lived. As he began to up to pull Aramis’s shirt up, he had just enough time to see the edge of a dark bruise before his friend’s entire body stiffened and he coughed. At first Athos thought he was in pain or confused, but then he jerked and coughed again, this time as if he was choking on something.

It took Athos a moment too long to process what was happening, and it was enough of a delay for Aramis to start to flail, this time clearly choking as he turned his head to the side and a thin stream of vomit trickled from his mouth. Acting purely on instinct, Athos grabbed the front of Aramis’ shirt and hauled him up and over the side of the bed.

Athos cringed as Aramis coughed violently for several seconds before vomiting again. Swallowing back the urge to be sick himself, he clenched his teeth and carefully slid his arm sideways across the other man’s chest to keep him from falling over. He wasn’t bringing up much, Athos noted, and he wondered for the first time when he last ate. Or drank. Or slept.

As abruptly as he’d started, Aramis stopped heaving and hung limply in Athos’s grasp, gasping and clutching at his side. The injured man was clearly awake now, and in significant pain.

Athos felt the urge to apologize. “I’m sorry, my friend. This is not my forte.”

At that, Aramis made a huffing noise and squirmed in protest. “I . . . know. Hurts . . . lie down.” His words were slurred, but the meaning was clear.

Athos levered his friend back against the mattress, this time positioning him on his side, and forced trembling, cold hands out of the way to push Aramis’s shirt up. The edge of the bruise he’d previously seen started on the left side above the marksman’s breeches, and fanned out across his stomach and right side, as if someone had hit him across the midsection and chest repeatedly with a club of some kind.

“Damn it.” Athos muttered. Aramis had been so angry, and they had been busy feeling betrayed, but how could they have missed all of this?

He cautiously reached out and pressed against the darkest area, eliciting a moan and a weak smack on his arm. Thankfully he didn’t feel bone move under his hand, although he could imagine how much vomiting must have hurt Aramis, not to mention Porthos dangling him over his shoulder. Another failure on their part to protect their brother. They should’ve checked before they moved him. They should've checked for injuries long before then, in fact. They'd taken Aramis' resiliency for granted because it had been the easy thing to do.

“Aramis.” Athos grasped the man by the chin when there was no response. “Aramis, look at me. Are you injured anywhere else aside from your head and ribs?”

Brown eyes blinked and stared up at him, watering from the strain of vomiting and likely the associated pain. “Athos?” Aramis asked, coughing slightly.

Athos sighed and brushed the man’s hair out of his eyes, much as he’d done for Sylvie not too long before this. “Yes, I’m here. Can you tell me where else you are injured?”

Aramis shook his head and tried to close his eyes. Athos gently nudged him. “Come now, you must tell me what happened so that we can help you. Don't make me command you.”

The marksman groaned in protest, but watery brown eyes squinted up at him in an effort to obey. “Head, ribs. Shoulders hurt. Hung me from m’ arms.”

At that, Athos clenched his teeth as rage flooded through him. Damn Grimoud to a fiery hell. When he found him he was going to kill him as painfully as possible - without sacrificing Aramis as a martyr for peace.

Athos let his hand rest atop Aramis’ dark curls. “I'm sorry, my friend. For everything we have been through, and that it is not yet over. I will see Grimoud dead if it is the last thing I do.”

For several seconds Aramis held his gaze, a sort of clarity in his eyes that implied he knew what Athos was thinking. Whatever Aramis’ response was meant to be, however, was interrupted by a grimace of discomfort, a hand coming up to clutch at his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Gonna be sick . . .”

This time Aramis managed to get himself to the edge of the bed, and Athos kept him steady with one hand on his back and the other across his forehead. There wasn’t anything to bring up after the previous round, but that didn’t stop Aramis from trying. He coughed and gagged for several long minutes until finally he went limp, his back heaving under Athos’s palm.

“What in the hell?”

Porthos’ voice seemed to boom in the silence and Aramis’ entire body flinched at the noise.

Athos himself startled, not realizing Porthos had returned. He looked up to see him standing in the doorway, holding the previously mentioned wood and blankets and staring at them with a vaguely ill expression.

“I think we may need the physician after all.” Athos stated.

At that, Aramis coughed some more, as if getting ready for another round of vomiting. Athos quickly put a hand on his back again before returning his gaze to Porthos. “Also, I believe you’re going to need to go back to the store room for a bucket – and a mop.”  



End file.
